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Poem	We must not force events, but rather make The heart soil ready for their coming, as The earth spreads carpets for the feet of Spring, Or, with the strengthening tonic of the frost, Prepares for Winter. Should a July noon Burst suddenly upon a frozen world Small joy would follow, even tho' that world Were longing for the Summer. Should the sting Of sharp December pierce the heart of June, What death and devastation would ensue! All things are planned. The most majestic sphere That whirls through space is governed and controlled By supreme law, as is the blade of grass Which through the bursting bosom of the earth Creeps up to kiss the light. Poor puny man Alone doth strive and battle with the Force Which rules all lives and worlds, and he alone Demands effect before producing cause. How vain the hope! We cannot harvest joy Until we sow the seed, and God alone Knows when that seed has ripened. Oft we stand And watch the ground with anxious brooding eyes Complaining of the slow unfruitful yield, Not knowing that the shadow of ourselves Keeps off the sunlight and delays result. Sometimes our fierce impatience of desire Doth like a sultry May force tender shoots Of half-formed pleasures and unshaped events To ripen prematurely, and we reap But disappointment; or we rot the germs With briny tears ere they have time to grow. While stars are born and mighty planets die And hissing comets scorch the brow of space The Universe keeps its eternal calm. Through patient preparation, year on year, The earth endures the travail of the Spring And Winter's desolation. So our souls In grand submission to a higher law Should move serene through all the ills of life, Believing them masked joys.
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